You Always Know Better and Do It Anyway

Every time I order nachos for delivery, I know how this is going to end. Not vaguely. Specifically. Cold edges. Wet chips. Cheese that has chosen a new shape I didn’t ask for.

And yet, I still order them.

It’s not confusion. It’s not optimism. It’s a brief suspension of memory. A moment where I convince myself this time might be different. Maybe the place figured it out. Maybe the distance isn’t that far. Maybe physics took the night off.

The box arrives warm, which feels promising for about three seconds. Then you open it and see what actually made the trip. The chips have softened. The cheese has migrated. Everything has settled into a single, united layer of disappointment that smells great and eats poorly.

What makes it worse is that none of this is surprising. I’ve had delivered nachos before. Many times. I remember every one of them. And still, in the moment, I act like this is new information.

I eat them anyway. Not angrily. Not dramatically. Just quietly, accepting that this was never going to be good, only familiar. A reminder that some foods are meant to be eaten immediately, and some mistakes are meant to be repeated.